Before I Sleep
by Nova42
Summary: Tag to 10x17, Inside Man. The hardest part of waking is remembering what you were trying to forget. This time it's Sam's turn to take care of his brother.


Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of the awesome characters in it. The poem is by Robert Frost "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"

A/N: This is a tag for 10x17 "Inside Man" for the nightmare scene. There is a reference made for BlueRiverSteel's tag to 10x16, it's not required reading but it's a great story so I highly recommend it. You can read it here. s/11140811/1/Kinda-The-Whole-Point

Thank you to Pepper as always who does a wonderful job beta reading and to my partners in crime who without I wouldn't be writing at all.

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_Whose woods these are I think I know._

_His house is in the village though;_

_He will not see me stopping here_

_To watch his woods fill up with snow._

Sam stood in the doorway, waiting; this wasn't the first time he was woken in the middle of the night to Dean's cries, and he knew it was far from the last. His initial instinct was to wake his brother, but one fractured cheekbone, some bruises, and a very guilt-ridden older brother had taught him to stay out of Dean's reach during the more volatile nightmares. So Sam waited. Most of the time the nightmares resolved themselves, allowing Dean a few precious hours of sleep every now and then, though sometimes the dreams required intervention. Sam hated that. He hated waking his big brother from a nightmare, not because Dean would more often than not come out swinging; Sam didn't care if he got hit, not really. He would let Dean wail on him all day if it gave his brother even a sliver of peace.

What Sam hated was the look Dean always had when he woke from a nightmare, the moments in between sleep and waking when there was no mask, when every raw emotion was laid bare for the world to see: the fear, desperation, sadness, guilt, but more than anything it was the look of defeat, of resignation. Sam knew it was selfish, but he didn't want to see that look, not on his big brother, the man who practically raised him, who had always made everything okay just by virtue of being. Those emotions, they didn't belong there.

Sam supposed that kind of made him a hypocrite. He was always asking, telling Dean to open up, share what was going on inside his head. He _did_ want to know, and he _did_ want to help his brother, but he was also scared that one day Dean _would_ open up, that he would share what was going on, what the Mark was doing to him. How bad it really was. He was afraid the pieces would come apart and he wouldn't know how to glue them back together like Dean had done for him so many times before. Part of him was thankful that Dean played things so close to the vest, only shared bits and pieces. It allowed the illusion that everything would be okay, that just by virtue of being, Dean would be okay. It's not that he believed his brother was invincible—he'd seen enough to know Dean wasn't. It was just that knowing and seeing were two very different things.

So he waited; he might not be willing to wake Dean for fear of what he might see, but he would in no way let his brother suffer alone. Even if Dean never knew it, Sam always stayed with him till the nightmares released his brother from their grip, until Dean was asleep again. It wasn't much, but it was the least he could do.

_My little horse must think it queer_

_To stop without a farmhouse near_

_Between the woods and frozen lake_

_The darkest evening of the year._

Dean snapped awake with a suddenness that would have been painful in itself if not for the fire burning its way through his arm, slamming into his gut and ricocheting back out until it filled his entire being. Dean bolted upright as his stomach rebelled against the assault; he lunged to the side to grip the trash can he kept near his bed, barely making it before his dinner made its guest reappearance. He hadn't eaten much at dinner, having felt a bit under the weather for most of the day. Clearly his stomach hadn't received that memo as it continued its attempt to expel what wasn't there.

By the time he finished he was shaking so badly he was surprised the small garbage can hadn't bounced its way off his lap. It took him a moment to realize that not only did he not have the can balanced on his lap, but it was being held in place by a hand that he was sure wasn't his, unless the Mark now had a whole new side effect.

His mouth tasted like metallic-tinged ass, and traveling to the sink seemed like something currently beyond his abilities, so when a glass of water appeared in front of his face, Dean had never wanted to kiss his brother more. Not that he would ever admit that. With his right arm still planted firmly against his midsection, he reached out and took the offered cup. Dean coughed, rinsing his mouth and spitting into the trash can; he then took another sip, letting the cool water sooth his raw throat.

Sam waited a moment before asking, "You good?"

Dean gave a small nod, pressing the cool glass against the side of his overheated forehead.

Sam started to removed the can, freezing halfway through the movement; his heart stopped cold as he glimpsed the contents inside. The dirt and balled-up paper that lay in the can were coated liberally in red.

"Dean, is this . . . ?" He let the sentence trail off, unwilling to say it out loud.

Dean shifted on the bed, pressing his arm into his stomach with a grimace. "Would you believe me if I said spaghetti sauce?"

Sam's frown deepened as he set the can down and turned his full attention to his brother.

Dean let out a weary sigh, keeping his gaze firmly on his floor. "It's . . . it's a side effect . . . not a big deal. It . . ." he trailed off with a shrug.

Sam sucked his teeth; he wanted to rail against Dean's comment—upchucking blood, in any quantity, was never _not_ a big deal. It was clear to him that this was not the first time it had happened, and he had a sinking feeling it wouldn't be the last either. Sam wanted to be angry at his brother for hiding it, but he knew what Dean was doing—he'd done the same thing when he was sick and hurting from the trials. He didn't want his brother to worry when there was nothing they could do to stop what was happening. "All right," he said finally.

"At least I didn't throw myself from a moving vehicle this time," Dean added unhelpfully.

Sam rolled his eyes. "That's not funny, Dean."

"It's a little funny."

Sam tilted his head and let out a huff of breath; he studied his brother for a moment. Dean still had his right arm pressed tightly against his midsection. Sam wasn't sure if it was because of his stomach or the Mark, maybe a combination of both. The red flush of his cheeks and dark bags under his eyes stood out in harsh contrast with the pale white coloring of his complexion. Sam chewed on his lip; he couldn't do anything to help Dean with the Mark's effects, but maybe he could help in another way. Sam hooked an arm under Dean's and pulled the older man to his feet. "Come on."

_He gives his harness bells a shake_

_To ask if there is some mistake._

_The only other sound's the sweep_

_Of easy wind and downy flake._

Dean clutched his fist tightly as the burning in his arm flared to life, pulling the appendage close as he followed Sam through the bunker. He wasn't sure what his little brother was up to, but he felt too drained to really question him. After the nightmare—courtesy of the Mark—it wasn't like he was going to be going back to sleep anytime soon anyways.

He hadn't killed anyone or anything since Cain, and the Mark was pissed and letting him know. Before Cain the Mark had started burning with increasing frequency and intensity. There had been a few times he'd had to retreat to his room in an attempt to just ride out the pain. Since Cain, however, the Mark upped the ante: the fire that used to consume his arm now spread across his chest and into his belly, making everything that much harder. Then there were the nightmares, the barely controllable rage, the need to kill something, anything. He wasn't sure how much longer he would last against it.

Dean's thoughts were interrupted when Sam stopped; he looked around to find himself standing in a room they had set up as a sort of entertainment area; a large TV and DVD player sat opposite of a couch, long enough for Sam to stretch out on. Splitting the distance between the two was a worn coffee table. He couldn't remember where they had gotten it from, only that it had shown up one day not too many months ago.

"Sam. . ." Dean started tiredly as his brother took him by the shoulders, walking him to the couch. With a soft nudge Dean was sitting on said couch, looking up at his brother expectantly.

Sam held up a hand while looking around the room. "Give me a second—don't go anywhere."

Dean gestured openly with both hands and leaned back on the couch. It wasn't long before Sam returned, arms loaded with various objects. He placed a full bottle of whiskey—the good whiskey—and two tumblers on the coffee table. He then crossed the room and loaded a movie into the DVD player. Dean watched with vague amusement as Sam returned to the couch to pour a generous amount of whiskey into a tumbler and handed it to him. Dean took it with a minute smile. He now knew what Sam was doing. Dean hated being coddled and cared for; it never seemed right, but at the moment he only felt exceptionally grateful for his little brother.

"What are we watching?" Dean leaned back into the couch, his shoulder brushing his brother's as he took a deep drink from his glass.

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

They were close to the end of Star Trek IV when Sam realized that Dean had gone quiet and was leaning rather heavily into him. Hazarding a glance, relief washed over him at the sight of his brother sleeping, his face smooth and relaxed. It never ceased to amaze him how young Dean could look when he slept, undisturbed by the problems that plagued their lives. Not that he would ever share that thought with his brother. It would not end well—for anyone.

Being careful not to wake the sleeping hunter, Sam shifted his brother so he was lying across the couch with his head pillowed on Sam's leg. In the morning he would call Cas, but for tonight, he would play the big brother. He would stand watch, keep the nightmares at bay, and make everything okay just by virtue of being.

_I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep._


End file.
